


Friends With Detriments

by logorrhea



Category: The Hitman's Bodyguard (2017)
Genre: Explicit Language, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Missing Scene, handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 02:35:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13044720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/logorrhea/pseuds/logorrhea
Summary: Wherein Darius discovers a use for briefs and Michael is indignant about many things but not that.  (Mainly because he doesn't find out.)





	Friends With Detriments

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zynnser](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zynnser/gifts).



> First two scenes take place during the movie and the third is sometime after Darius breaks out. I love the idea of the two of them meeting up for drink and banter afterwards hahaha. Oh, and thank you for giving me the incentive to write fic for them -- it was great fun. <3

Michael was a wreck after his session with Dukhovich's little lackey. Barely unconscious, unable to stand, with his eyes fluttering in a way that was practically asking for a bullet. Darius considered the number of times the other had fucked with his assignment; he thought of the incessant whining and nagging he had had to put up with for the past fourty-eight hours. He thought of how easy it would be to pop one off, roll his body down a ravine (or better yet, in one of those hundred dams between here and the Hague), and make his life just a little easier.

And then he sighed and swore under his breath and looped his arms underneath the other man. With a grunt that spoke of more effort than he would be comfortable admitting -- he was not a young man by any stretch, after all -- Darius Kincaid lifted Michael Bryce up and off the torture seat.

"Triple A executive protection my ass," he grumbled, staggering his way to the BMW, a neat little model he had nabbed on the way. He dumped Michael gracelessly in the back seat before getting behind the wheel and flooring it.

And then they were off.

-

In the half an hour it took for him to book it out of Amsterdam, Michael did not so much as stir.

"No shit," he muttered to himself, checking the rearview mirror for stragglers. "He's just been dragged to the pearly gates by Mr. Third Reich Fashionista and you expect him to shake it off?" Darius glanced behind him, looking at Michael's prone form, and said a little louder: "You just gonna lie there and take that, you overpaid mailman?"

Evidently, yes.

He checked again to make sure there was no one on their tail before pulling over into the emergency lane. Then he got out, grumbling still, and wedged himself into the back.

"Yo, Michael," he tried again, gently shaking the other man's shoulder. "Wakey wakey, it's time to finish this job and get your old life back."

He patted his cheek -- cold -- and then took his pulse. It was weak and erratic at that, but it was definitely there. Darius sighed, furrowing his brow. They had little less than three hours before the deadline, before Dukhovich would walk free. It had been a win-win situation at first: he'd throw Dukhovich in and get Sonia (legally!) out. But now, looking at the man beneath him take one strangled breath after another, Darius felt the beginnings of a conscience tug at his heart.

Thankfully, luck (or fate, or the Powers That Be) decided to throw him a bone in the form of Michael groaning and rolling his hips.

Darius startled instantly, backing away, but his gaze was instantaneously drawn to the cause of discomfort.

"Oh for fuck's sake..." he groaned, staring at the tent in the other man's trousers. "It's those goddamn briefs of yours. How the fuck are you going to get a little Bryce junior if you keep your junk locked up like that?"

It was awkward to say the least, propping Michael up so that he could fumble the buttons and zipper of his pants open. They were a tangle of entirely clothed limbs within minutes, with Michael panting against Darius' neck and doing some stupidly distracting shit with his teeth.

"Hang on a minute..." Darius huffed, digging around in the glove compartment for a handkerchief that wasn't there. There was, however, a spare set of briefs -- fucking briefs man, why the fuck did Michael think they (or anyone) would need them then? -- but hey, it was better than nothing. He spat in his hand and wrapped around Michael's dick, working the shaft slowly.

"There you go," he murmured, "Easy does it..."

Sure enough, Michael's breath caught and he crumpled against Darius. There was a rasping moan and Darius felt teeth scraping at his shoulder.

He closed his eyes and counted to sixty. At the end of it, Michael's breathing had evened out and he looked noticeably better, well, minus the poor choice in undergarments. Darius sighed, wiping him off with the spare pair of briefs before tucking him back in. He felt his pulse, just to be sure, and it was stronger, steadier.

His own heart however, was hammering inside his ribcage.

With a jerk, he shoved Michael off to the side and against the window, retreating to the driver's seat.

It was the first time he had had anything resembling intimacy since being locked up and he was hard too.

"You motherfucker..." he swore, irritated that he couldn't have waited for Sonia, before unzipping his own pants and getting himself off. He came against the briefs, crashing his forehead against the steering wheel. There was a loud honk and he froze, craning his head back to look at Michael, who was still sleeping like the dead. Then he shook his head, muttering "Triple-A my ass..." before wiping himself off and tossing the dirtied set of briefs out the window.

-

"You motherfucker," Michael swore, when they were nursing a beer together after their grand adventure. "You absolute cunt of a motherfucker," he repeated.

"Hey," Darius snapped, "A little thank you would be nice. I fucking saved your ass there."

"A thank you?" Michael snarled, "You want a thank you for an unwarranted handjob?! Holy fuck, what the hell is wrong with you? Jesus!" He looked around for something to throw at the other and, failing to find either dart or knife, settled for a tortilla chip.

"Hey, it's not like I enjoyed it either. But you know, when it's not the time and place, sometimes it is the time and place. And besides, don't think I don't know how you copped a feel while changing my undies."

"I -- what -- NO!" Michael was puce-red and veering towards violet.

"What?" It was Darius' turn to do a double-take, "You mean, in all the shithole desert missions you got sent off to -- "

"I went to Libya, once."

"Fine, fine. So there's you and some army platoon in the middle of the desert and there's no woman for miles and months and you just -- " Darius gestured to his junk.

"No," Michael snapped, "I never needed to."

"You never needed -- " Darius chortled, "Now come on there, Mr. Executive Asshole, you got the parts and they work alright. You mean to tell me you lasted months without even a reach-around?"

"YES."

"Okay, okay then," Darius held up his hands, conceding, "But then I have to say, in my defense, you were already hard when I pulled you out. So I'm guessing there's a little M in you?" He waggled his eyebrows for effect.

Michael threw the basket of chips at him, flipped him the finger, and then stood up and walked away. Darius was left there, laughing, for a good ten minutes, before he caught his breath and brushed the crumbs from his suit. And then, as he was sauntering to the counter to pay, the bartender shook his head.

"Naw ese, you covered. Tab's been paid."

Darius blinked and then laughed again.

"You crazy white cracker motherfucker..." he muttered, shaking his head ruefully.

They had to make a thing of this, he decided.


End file.
